"Do you know any of the girls over at the college who would like to get a room, Miss Clayton?"

"No, but I might find some one."

"Mr. Grafton has moved out of his room for some reason, I don't know what."

"Mr.--whom did you say?" asked Beth.

"Mr. Grafton. Did you know him? A tall, dark fellow! Goes to Victoria.

Quite good-looking!"

"Why, surely, can it be Arthur Grafton! That's just who it is! Why, how funny we never met each other coming in and out!"

"Did you know him, Beth?" asked Mabel. "I met him once or twice in the halls, but I didn't know you knew him."

"Yes, I have known him ever since we were children."

"Oh, then you have heard him play," said Mrs. Owens. "He played for us Thanksgiving eve. He's a splendid musician."

Beth felt just a tinge of disappointment that night as she pa.s.sed the closed door of the room Arthur had occupied. She wondered why he never tried to find her. It was unkind of him to break the old friendship so coldly. It was not her fault she could not love him, she thought. She could never, never do that! In fact, she did not believe she would ever love any man.

"Some people are not made for marriage, and I think I'm one of them."

And Beth sighed faintly and fell asleep.

CHAPTER X.

_DEATH._

Christmas eve, and Beth was home for her two weeks' holidays. It was just after tea, and she and her father thought the parlor decidedly cosy, with the curtains drawn and the candles flaming among the holly over the mantel-piece. It seemed all the cosier because of the storm that raged without. The sleet was beating against the pane, and the wind came howling across the fields. Beth parted the curtains once, and peeped out at the snow-wreaths whirling and circling round.

"Dear! such a storm! I am glad you're not out to-night, daddy."

Beth came back to the fire-side, and pa.s.sed her father a plate of fruit-cake she had made herself.

"It's too fresh to be good, but you mustn't find any fault. Just eat every bit of it down. Oh, Kitty, stop!"

They had been cracking walnuts on the hearth-rug, and Beth's pet kitten was amusing itself by scattering the sh.e.l.ls over the carpet.

Beth sat down on the footstool at her father's feet.

"You look well after your fall's work, Beth; hard study doesn't seem to hurt you."

"I believe it agrees with me, father."

"Did you see much of Arthur while you were in Toronto, Beth? I was hoping you would bring him home for the Christmas holidays."

"No, I never saw him once."

"Never saw him once!"

He looked at her a little sternly.

"Beth, what is the matter between you and Arthur?"

Ding! The old door-bell sounded. Beth drooped her head, but the bell had attracted her father's attention, and Aunt Prudence thrust her head into the parlor in her unceremonious way.

"Doctor, that Brown fellow, by the mill, is wuss, an' his wife's took down, too. They think he's dyin'."

"Oh, daddy, I can't let you go out into this dreadful storm. Let me go with you."

"Nonsense, child! I must go. It's a matter of life and death, perhaps.

Help me on with my coat, daughter, please, I've been out in worse storms than this."

Beth thought her father looked so brave and n.o.ble in that big otter overcoat, and his long white beard flowing down. She opened the door for him, and the hall light shone out into the snow. She shuddered as she saw him staggering in the wind and sleet, then went back into the parlor. It seemed lonely there, and she went on to the kitchen, where Aunt Prudence was elbow-deep in pastry. A kitchen is always a cheerful place at Christmas time. Beth's fears seemed quieted, and she went back to the parlor to fix another branch of holly about a picture. Ding! Was any one else sick, she wondered, as she went to answer the bell. She opened the door, and there stood Mrs. Perth! It was really she, looking so frail and fair in her furs.

"Why, May, dear! What are you doing out in this storm?"

"Oh, I'm nearly half dead, Beth." She tried to laugh, but the attempt was not exactly a success.

Beth took her in to the fire, removed her wraps, all matted with snow, and called to Aunt Prudence for some hot tea.

"Is your father out to-night, Beth?" asked May.

"Yes, he went away out to the Browns'. But wherever have you been?"

"I've been taking some Christmas things to a poor family about two miles out in the country, and I didn't think the storm so very bad when I started; but I'm like the Irishman with his children, I've 'more'n I want'--of sleet, at any rate. Walter is away to-night, you know."

"Mr. Perth away! Where?"

"Oh, he went to Simcoe. He has two weddings. They are friends of ours, and we didn't like to refuse. But it's mean, though," she continued, with a sweet, affected little pout; "he'll not get back till afternoon, and it's Christmas, too."

"Oh, May dear, you'll just stay right here with us to-night, and for dinner to-morrow. Isn't that just fine!" Beth was dancing around her in child-like glee. Mrs. Perth accepted, smiling at her pleasure; and they sat on the couch, chatting.

"Did you say Dr. Woodburn had gone to the Browns'."

"Yes, Mrs. Brown is sick, too."

"Oh, isn't it dreadful? They're so poor, too. I don't believe they've a decent bed in the house."

"Eight! There, the clock just struck. Father ought to be back. It was only a little after six when he went out."

She looked anxiously at the drawn curtains, but the sleet beating harder and harder upon the pane was her only answer.

"There he is now!" she cried, as a step entered the hall, and she rushed to meet him.

"Oh, daddy, dear--why, father!"